Getting to Know John
by Stealth Dragon
Summary: In hard times, friends learn to lean on eachother. John and Rodney friendship. Major spoilers for Outcast.


Getting to Know John

by

Stealth Dragon

Rating: T (to be safe. But a very gentle T.)

Disclaimer: I don't own Stargate Atlantis. My cat is wierd.

Summary: In hard times, two firends learn to lean on each other. John and Rodney friendship written for the SGAGenficathon over on Livejournal. Major Spoilers for Outcast. Mentions of abuse and adult themes but nothing explicit.

--

Since the "Holy Order" had a very strict look but don't touch policy, Rodney had no reason to panic over STDs, which left him with nothing to talk about except to ask why even have all that eye candy to begin with. Sheppard always told him to shut up about it. It was the unspoken and universal consent among fellow eye-candy never to discuss out loud what the priests and priestesses did as a ritual in the sacred hall. It was difficult enough having to look upon the sweaty, bloody, dirty, stinking and barely clothed bodies of their drunken masters in the aftermath.

Neither could Rodney bring up Sheppard's current physical state of the week when they met to do the master's laundry. Laundry day was a peon social event – their only social event - and Sheppard always walked in sporting the latest black eye or severe limp. Rodney had asked about it only once, the first week of their captivity.

"Seems I got the mean one," Sheppard had said, all forced lightness and joviality that was a thin veneer over his frustration. "Who ever she partners with in that ritual thing, he pisses her off - a lot. She pisses him off, too, but he's smarter about who to take it out on." Sheppard illustrated when he lifted his loose shirt with the gold embroidery to show off a boot-shaped bruise on his ribs. "She just goes for who ever's the closest."

And that pissed Rodney off. Pissed him off and terrified him, making it difficult to say anything without getting more pissed off and terrified about it. For all Sheppard's assurances that he could handle it (stoic SOB) many of the priests and priestesses had a way of going through peons fast, and not because they traded them off for a better model. Some of the screaming that echoed through the marble halls were not the product of ritual day. These people were brutal, even the nice ones. Rodney's own mistress loved talking science, would spend her whole life talking science, but tell her she's wrong about any of the discussed theories and the books would start flying. If Rodney squinted, he could almost make out the title of the last book she'd thrown at his chest.

Talking escape was out of the question. The acoustics of the washing chamber carried sound all the way into the hall where the guards waited, and some of the slaves thought that being a nark could actually win them favors.

So that didn't leave much to gossip over at the washing vats, clothe lines and stone folding tables. But Rodney needed something to talk about, anything, so he could pretend – just during laundry day – that they weren't wallowing in hell.

"You ever own a Mercedes?" Rodney asked as they shoved and stirred a steaming stew of white robes and red gowns. They always managed to snag vats right next to each other. Today, Sheppard was forced to stir one-handed so he could cradle a bruised wrist against his chest. The effort and steam turned the thin white shift so transparent that Rodney could see the dark stain that was Sheppard's chest hair, and more bruises on his back.

"No," Sheppard stated flatly, with a menacing look that had nothing to do with the strain of stirring clothes.

"Porsche?" Rodney didn't see what the annoyance was. If you have money, you buy nice things. Rodney sure as hell would have bought a Mercedes or Porsche if he'd had the cash. Besides, he was curious, and entitled to his curiosity. Who wouldn't be after finding out that the friend they'd previously known squat about had come from money?

Sheppard snarled under his breath, "I'm going to kill Ronon."

"Actually, he'd probably kill you long before you killed him. Besides, it's not his fault. He just wanted to know if all earthlings owned more than one house. Then one question led to another, and I pieced the rest together myself. So did you own any nice car? At least drive a nice car?"

"I drove my dad's Cadillac, once. Got grounded for it."

"So... no nice car?"

Sheppard turned a heavy-lidded glare on Rodney. "I drove a used Ford truck. All right? My dad was big into making us self-sufficient. If we wanted a car, we had to earn the money and get it ourselves."

"Bet that pissed you off."

"Not really. It always made me feel like I'd accomplished something. It made everything I did, everything I got, worth something."

Which, in a way, explained a lot. Sheppard was of the obnoxious breed of men who took life one day at a time, appreciated what they had, enjoyed the simple pleasures of life and never demanded more... unless it involved weapons and really cool space-ships, then it was nothing but "fix it, fix it, fix it."

"I did get a horse for Christmas when I was ten," Sheppard said. At Rodney's wide-eyed incredulity, he quickly added, "It was from my mom. She liked trail riding and I was the only one who'd go with her. The thoroughbreds were too hyper so she got me a bay paint. I took care of it. Shoveled horse crap and everything." He smiled wistfully as he pulled sodden robes from the vat to slop into the basket. "I really liked that horse."

--

Sheppard's newest hurt must have been in the shoulder by the way he kept rolling it. Along with the still-damaged wrist, it was making folding the over-sized robes slow going for him. When Rodney finished his own load, he reached across the gray-marble table and pulled half the pile toward him.

"Private school or public?" he asked.

Sheppard's mouth twisted in a mild sneer. "Public when I was in elementary. Private for middle school and Highschool. My dad had no faith in the public education system, especially middle school."

Rodney snorted. "My father would have booted my ass to the nearest private school if he'd had the money. Not even sending me to college at a tender age cut it for him. I'm surprised your dad didn't force you to join Mensa." He flicked his eyes to and from Sheppard. The whole Mensa revelation had driven Rodney nuts. Sheppard refused to answer direct questions as to why he'd never joined, and Rodney could never get a handle on being off-handed and subtle enough when asking to make the question seem innocent and not prying.

"He tried persuading me," Sheppard said. "Even tried bribing me by offering to help me buy a _nice car_. Gave me an hour long lecture at the top of his voice when the bribing didn't pan out. But, ultimately, it was my choice, and my dad eventually dropped it. Well, dropped it as much as he dropped anything. He'd toss in the idea of membership like he was suggesting we go out for pizza or something. But I think he was content enough knowing that his son was smarter than he came across."

"So why didn't you join?"

"I wasn't going to join an organization that would have me as a member."

Rodney chuckled wryly while muttering under his breath, "Oh how you suck." Then added with a little more sobriety. "Remember our first year on Atlantis, when we thought we were going to die horrible deaths so made those videos to send home? Ford told me you didn't make one. He thought you didn't have any family or something. So, naturally, I assumed the same." He looked up at John, waiting for the answer to a question that Rodney didn't feel right about asking out loud. Had the conversation taken place before Sheppard's father had passed on, then maybe. Now, though, definitely not.

So when Sheppard didn't answer, keeping his eyes on his folding, Rodney didn't push the matter.

--

Rodney had thought Sheppard had been looking a little extra lean last laundry day. Nothing spectacular or blatant, simply a sharper visibility to his collar-bones and harsher angles to his face. Weight loss was inevitable when every meal was white porridge and watery stew, and even Rodney had to keep tightening his belt.

What bothered him was Sheppard's exhaustion: his lethargic movements and the way his hands shook. It could have been from pain – Sheppard had been cradling his side that day – but Rodney wasn't going to take any chances.

Next laundry day, he slipped two rolls from dinner out of his pocket and into Sheppard's with a whispered, "Eat them fast."

Sheppard didn't hesitate. He hunkered low pretending to inspect a spot, and shoved one roll into his mouth. Thankfully, the roll was small enough for him to eat fast without choking, and the second soon followed.

Rodney grimaced in disgust. "Please tell me she's not putting you on a diet, because that would be sadistic."

"She, uh..." Sheppard began when he could talk. "She forgets, sometimes."

Really, Rodney couldn't complain too much about his own master, who liked discussing scholarly matters over breakfast, lunch and dinner. The books may have hurt, especially if it was the corners that got him, but at least he was getting three square meals a day. Some of the peons, if they didn't drop from the beatings, wasted away to nothing until, one day, they vanished... literally.

Rodney also noticed the absence of Sheppard's annoyance. The complete lack of control that came with slavery had been the pinnacle of Sheppard's misery, leaving a perpetual scowl on his face. Today, there was no scowl. There was uncertainty, discomfort and – crap – Rodney was certain Sheppard was nervous. He wanted to know and, in the heat of anger and rising trepidation, almost asked, out loud, what the hell that woman was doing to him. He had to clench his jaw to stop himself. It would do only to fuel the anger and kick the trepidation up to full-on fear. There was nothing he could do, not until they either figured out how to escape or rescue came.

Instead, he settled for a massive change of subject. "So what possessed you to join the Air Force rather than just become a commercial airline pilot?"

Sheppard wiped the crumbs from his working hand before he returned to folding. It reminded Rodney a little of his college days when he was old enough to live on his own, going to the laundromat every Saturday. Except for the conversation part; he'd put effort into avoiding people, not thinking up stuff to talk about.

"Cooler things to fly," Sheppard said, serious. When Rodney opened his mouth to remark on the immaturity of such an answer, Sheppard grinned. "And I wanted to do something important, something that wasn't just about making more money."

"Lifestyles of the rich and famous wasn't your thing, I take it."

Sheppard shrugged his good shoulder. "Just because it was how I grew up didn't mean it was how I wanted to live. I'd wanted options."

"Mm, bet dad wasn't happy about that." Which probably hadn't been the right thing to say. Sheppard, however, didn't seem bothered by it.

"No, he wasn't," he said in a distracted way as though most of his focus was on folding. "I made decisions that went one way, he made decisions that went another, and he was never easy to please, even when I did the stuff I'd thought he'd approve of. He was kind of linear that way; one hundred percent or nothing. Joining the military..." he shook his head, lips twitching into a rueful smile, "he was so damn mad when I dropped that bomb, I'm still surprised he didn't hit me. Not that he ever had, it's just... that was the first time I'd ever seen him so furious."

Rodney twisted his mouth in creeping discomfort. The conversation was taking a personal turn, and he was finding it surreal. Not once since meeting him had Sheppard ever opened up so easily, not without catching himself at the last minute to get the shutters to slam closed before anything else was said. Sheppard's exhaustion must have been heavier than Rodney realized, the body running on fumes instead of fuel, and it gave Rodney's questions a twisted edge as though he were taking advantage of Sheppard's current state.

For that reason, he made another shift in topics. "So, besides a horse, own any other pets?" A man's past wasn't a conversation piece unless he wanted it to be, and Rodney knew Sheppard wouldn't want it to be.

--

"Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow..." Rodney needed to learn to duck better. He couldn't get his left eye to open, and he was dead-sure there was ocular damage. Without his peripheral, he kept running into people, thumping bodies or baskets of clothes. It was like being in a cattle drive through cavernous halls of pale-yellow marble and quartz, complete with lowing murmurs of timid conversation.

He didn't see Sheppard anywhere, even when they were herded into the white washroom an obstacle course of stone tables, clothe-lines and wooden vats of hot water. Not until he set his basket by the nearest vat and turned to watch the entrance did he see Sheppard huddled against the wall, hunched and shaking. Even when a temple guard gave him a shove, he stumbled a few feet, shuffled a few feet more, then huddled back against the wall.

The second beauty to laundry day was that the guards didn't give a damn what the servants did in the washroom. The only rule was to come in with dirty robes, come out with clean, and if you screwed it up somewhere in between, it was the masters who did the punishing if their sleeve ended up being an inch too short. Rodney left his basket by the vat and hurried over to Sheppard, taking the basket from his trembling arms.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he hissed, and didn't mean for it to come out as an accusation. It was always difficult to control his tone of voice when he was scared, and right now he was skirting the edge of panic.

Rodney let Sheppard lean up against his shoulder as they shuffled back to the vats, the colonel sagging and miserable, giving Rodney a good look at what the problem was. He fumbled with the basket when it almost slipped from his suddenly numb fingers.

The back of Sheppard's shirt was solid red, and wet.

Rodney gulped convulsively to keep the vomit down. "Oh crap." Dumping the basket next to his, he grabbed Sheppard's arm and hustled him to the room where the extra bed-linens were stored. "Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap. What the hell did they do? What the hell did you do? What the hell..."

"Her royal pain-in-the-ass and her partner got into a fight," Sheppard said as Rodney carefully helped him to his knees. "She told him that I would probably make a better lover than him. _Probably, _as in she didn't really know because she'd never touched me, and he goes ballistic as if she _had_ touched me. So he orders me whipped in her private chambers until she finally confesses..." he sighed, "because she didn't want the blood staining the floor, because she hates blood."

Rodney tried with as much gentleness as his shaking hands would allow to peel the material from Sheppard's back, and Sheppard still hissed and grunted. Underneath the cloth was a mess of shredded skin more mutilated than ground hamburger, and more blood than Rodney ever cared to see in a lifetime. His throat worked fast and hard to keep the burning bile down.

"Oh crap. Ooohhh crap," he squeaked when he was able to.

"I think we covered that, McKay," Sheppard breathed, then winced. "Damn it! I can't even twitch without feeling it."

Rodney could only stare, contemplating the consequences of this many lacerations. Not just blood loss, but infections, alien infections, the kind earth-made antibiotics would be impotent against. But that was only if they managed, somehow, through luck, chance, or stubborn refusal to die here, to make it back home.

If they didn't and John got sick, it became a coin toss as to whether or not his mistress wanted to put any effort into keeping him alive. Even if she did, Rodney had absolutely no faith in an infirmary that really did look like the den of a voodoo witch-doctor. They used leeches, for crying out loud! Real blood-sucking leeches. Rodney had seen them brought in by the jar-full, big as friggin' mice. And he wouldn't be surprised if the "doctor" thought the vampire slugs were good for curing blood-loss.

"McKay?"

Rodney physically jolted from his line of morbid thinking. "Huh?"

A shudder rippled through John's skin. "My back's getting cold."

"What? Oh, right, sorry." He lowered the shirt before helping Sheppard to his feet to drag him into the bathroom adjacent to the linen closet. The entire temple and society was Romanesque down to its plumbing. The toilet was a stone bench with a hole in it, and there was a ceramic sink with a hooked spigot. It was the only positive on this planet that the metal used for the piping wasn't subject to rust, which meant no fretting over poisoning. There were no towels, not even a washcloth, so after relifting Sheppard's shirt, Rodney poured water into his cupped hands.

"Probably won't do you any good except to keep flies from sticking to you." He tossed the water onto Sheppard's back, making the other man shiver, then he rubbed.

The scrape of dried scabs, the feel of warm skin, twitching muscles, bone and slimy blood made the flesh of Rodney's hand want to crawl up his sleeve and hide. Every time a muscle tensed under his palm when he brushed a laceration or hit a bruise, Rodney's own body tensed in sympathy.

"Sorry. Sorry, Sheppard."

"S'all right."

"No, no it's not," Rodney whimpered. "What the hell is wrong with these people?" He still couldn't get the swollen lids of his eye to part, and it hurt to try. "Benevolent my ass. It's like living in a brothel run by Charles Manson. And how do we know they don't sacrifice people in that stupid ritual of theirs?"

"I thought we weren't," Sheppard grunted when Rodney's hand slid over a laceration bisecting a bruise, "s'pposed... to discuss..."

Rodney bobbed his head hard. "Right, right. What happens in the ritual, stays in the ritual." He leaned toward the sink, grabbed more water and poured from the neck down to slough off the moistened blood. He continued wiping, and couldn't even begin to imagine how much pain Sheppard was in. More pain than the colonel's high threshold could handle. The muscles were pulled rock-solid yet vibrating beneath Rodney's hands, like an overextended rubber-band ready to snap, and he could feel the ribs tremble with each breath.

And there was still plenty of blood left to remove.

Rodney almost pulled away when Sheppard's next pained grunt declined into a whimper.

"So," Rodney squeaked, desperate to take both their minds anywhere but the here and now, "what was your horse's name?"

"Huh?"

"Your horse. You said you had a horse. What did you call it?"

"Oh, uh... Bugs."

Rodney splashed on more water. "As in Bugs Bunny?"

"As in," John winced, "Bugsy's Lucky Ace. That was his registered name. My dad let my mom get him as part of the payment for one of the thoroughbreds."

"How long did you have him?"

"'Til I was sixteen, then he had to be put down when he hurt his leg, bad. Bunch of damn dogs chased him into a wire fence. He could barely stand."

There was a brief moment of silence, uncomfortable and feeling longer than it probably was, before Sheppard started talking again. "I actually cried when that happened. Not sobbed like a baby or anything, but there were tears. My mom got me that horse. Last thing she ever got me 'cause she died six months later."

Rodney paused, feeling like a deer in the headlights, wondering if he should just let this play out or change the subject. Injured, with less blood in his body than was healthy, it was highly probable that Sheppard had no idea what he was saying, and it felt like taking an even bigger advantage of the man. Rodney's general curiosity about who his friend was and where he came from was too mild to be satiated this way.

"It was cool, though," Sheppard went on. Rodney remained transfixed by indecision, a part of him wanting to know where Sheppard was going with his story, even if it did feel like voyeurism into the harsher details of the man's life.

"My dad didn't say much, not even an "I'm sorry for your loss." All he said was that I could stay home from school tomorrow if I wanted. But it wasn't what he said, it was the way he said it – like he was saying I'm sorry, just with different words. Like when my mom died, he said I didn't have to go back to school until I felt ready. Maybe they weren't the right words, but I knew – I _knew_..." Sheppard's voice softened. "I knew, I just hadn't really realized it until my horse died."

When Sheppard fell silent, Rodney finished cleaning until only scabbed lacerations and bruised skin remained.

"Sheppards really suck with words," John muttered. He glanced over his shoulder, narrowing his blood-shot eyes at Rodney. "Who the hell did that to you?"

Rather than answer, Rodney sighed wearily and gave the colonel's shoulder a soft pat.

--

Sheppard wasn't in the washroom next laundry day, and that scared Rodney more than a squadron of wraith. Scared him enough to talk to his master about it over dinner as he dined on porridge and she discussed pseudo science while stuffing her face with meat.

"You know," he dared to butt in when she paused to take a drink from her golden goblet, "Lady Alra's servant, Sheppard, likes science. He's smart, really smart, and all the other ladies seem to enjoy looking at him." Which Rodney felt it safe to assume wasn't a lie.

His master sneered. "Please. Men like him have no intelligence. They are dependent on their looks. Besides, he is wasted. Alra can try all she wants but he will be dead by the end of three sun-sets, you mark my words."

Rodney actually perked up at that. If Sheppard's master was trying, then she hadn't killed him, which meant he was in what passed as this temple's infirmary.

The realization ripped the perk right out of him, especially when he wondered if they were using the leeches. Now he had to figure out a way to get into that infirmary... without it resulting in his master going impatient and killing him just to get a new peon. Something harmless and easy to cure was the way he needed to go: refrain from eating just enough until he passed out, or get himself to puke and feign this planet's equivalent of the flu.

Luck decided to shine down on him in a different light. The next day – the day Rodney had decided to go for puking – he awoke to the gong of brass bells, all five of them. One bell signaled the morning, two the midday meal, three the evening meal and back to one for night.

Five bells meant they were in deep crap.

"Invasion!" Rodney's master shrieked. It got him leaping from his straw pallet tucked in the corner of the room and rushing to the master's bed to help throw clothes into a bag. The last time he'd hesitated in helping her with anything, the sharp end of a book had clocked him hard in the spine.

"Pack faster, you fool!" she snarled over the thrum of the bells. When five silk bags bulged with personal belongings, they were loaded onto a small cart like a child's wooden wagon. Rodney reached for the wagon's handle only to be shoved aside by a guard.

"You are to stay behind and defend the temple," the guard growled, shoving a sword into McKay's hand. Rodney was left gaping, numb fingers barely gripping the hilt, as the master and her armed escort hurried from the private chambers.

Then he remembered Sheppard, probably lying sick and helpless and covered in leeches, and his fear narrowed. Rodney broke into a run into the hallway, dodging soldiers running one way, priest and priestesses running the other, and terrified servants just standing there.

"Where's the infirmary? Healing room? Anyone know? I need to get to the healing room. Where's the damn healing room!"

A small mouse of a woman gave a startled squeak when Rodney's shout landed right in her ear as he ran by. She snagged the sleeve of his robe, tugging and pointing back down the way he had come.

"This way, it's this way!"

She led him down hall after hall against the flow of fleeing masters already starting to thin out. The infirmary – healing room – was at the very end of the next corridor through two massive wooden doors the size of elephants. The healing room was huge, long, with two rows of beds on either side and a door that was most likely a supply closet at the other end. The healers in their plain beige robes were scurrying like mice, packing jars, herbs, packets and instruments more appropriate for torture than healing into bags. Not one of them paid any mind to their only five patients.

Rodney spotted Sheppard on the left side in a center bed, the only patient lying shirtless on his stomach. Rodney ran to him, dropping to his knees beside the bed and searching the colonel's neck for a pulse. He let out a shuddering sigh when he felt the steady thump.

"Good," he gasped, trying to catch his breath from all the running and dodging. "Still alive. Come on, we need to get out of here. Can you move?"

Sheppard groaned incoherently but didn't so much as twitch. Rodney sagged heavily against the bed. "I take it you can't even talk. What the hell did they do to you?" On the plus side, the only plus side, at least Sheppard wasn't covered in leeches.

Rodney shook Sheppard's shoulders, then tried tugging on his wrist. "Sheppard! I need you to get up and get on your feet, now! We need to get the hell out of here." Dropping the sword, he pulled John's arm across his shoulders, wrapping his own arm around the slender waist. "You can bask in your misery later but that's only if we make it out of here alive, so move! Come on!"

Sheppard finally began to stir, legs shifting and muscles tensing. Rodney made his slow way to his feet when the thunderous crash of the doors flying open startled him into dropping back to his knees and Sheppard back to the bed. Men like desert marauders in layers of dark scrap-cloth and scarves poured into the healing room, waving swords flashing silver and howling battle cries. The remaining healers didn't stand a chance, cut down like grass. Rodney shrank against the bed, gripping Sheppard's shoulder in one hand and groping for the sword with another.

Just when his fingers found the hilt, a marauder leaped over the neighboring bed and kicked it beyond reach, pressing the point of his scimitar into the soft skin under McKay's jaw. Rodney was sure his heart was going to explode if it beat any faster. He squeezed Sheppard's shoulder tight, hanging on for all the good it would do. They were dead, so very, very dead.

And Rodney was so not ready to die.

"Please," he whimpered. "Please, don't."

"Leave him alone."

Rodney didn't dare try to move his head, so moved his eyes to see Sheppard lifting his own head wearing a homicidal glare. His pale, sweaty skin and red-rimmed and blood-shot eyes made the look all the more unsettling, and despite Sheppard's painfully obvious weakness, Rodney – for a moment – actually thought him quite capable of kicking some ass.

Except for the eyes, most of the marauder's face was buried beneath scarves. But all that was needed were the eyes that flashed fierce and, Rodney was shocked to see, with sympathy. The man lowered his sword and stepped away, returning personal space to Rodney and Sheppard. Rodney watched with a slack-jaw as the marauders ransacked the storage closet and the sacks of the now dead healers, while leaving the other patients and the mousy woman huddled against the wall completely alone.

"This is new," Sheppard rasped. Rodney looked at him just as the pilot's head dropped back to the pillow. "But I'll take it."

The marauders, it seemed, weren't marauders but freedom fighters. Or so Rodney assumed when the man who'd pointed the sword at them earlier returned to announce that they were free men, had nothing left to fear, and could leave if they wished. The temple was now under freedom-fighter regime, and their own healers in brown robes were brought in to tend to the sick and injured.

A bald man with a round gut who Rodney couldn't stop seeing as friar Tuck cleaned Sheppard's back, bandaged it, then forced some blue concoction that was supposed to help fight infection down his throat.

"The healers here are fools," Tuck said. "They allowed infection to set in. Your friend is very ill."

Rodney, sitting on the edge of the bed next to John's and too exhausted for a sarcastic retort, looked over at the healer. "But he'll be all right now, right?"

Tuck's features were soft with uncertainty. "I cannot say, not yet. But I will do what I can."

Food was brought to them, meat and vegetables instead of porridge, and stew in a cup for John. The woman who brought it must have also been a healer, or at least wasn't a stranger to the sick, the way she held John's head and tipped the cup toward his lips while murmuring encouragement.

"So," Rodney said, going for amiable but it coming out as high-pitched and nervous. "I take it your people don't approve of the, um... of what goes on in this place."

The young woman's features hardened. She was dark-haired and dark-eyed, exotic and regal but radiating compassion, kind of like Teyla. "It is a deplorable existence. They claim they care for all living things, yet treat their own kind lower than animals. Many of those they take for servitude or their rituals, they take from our camps."

Rodney felt the blood drain from his face. "So they, um... they do sacrifice?"

"I would assume as much. The bodies we found were ravaged. I would rather not think about what they do."

Rodney sighed. "You're not the only one."

Night came, replacing soft sunlight with black, blue and silver from two moons pouring through the windows high up on the right-side wall. Rodney laid on his back in bed, one arm tucked behind his head and his hand resting on his stomach. He couldn't sleep, not with all these sudden turns of events that had left him dazed and edgy. He kept expecting his master to storm into the healing room, robes fluttering like wings and eyes burning with rage as she brandished one of her precious science books.

Sheppard's moaning, groaning and rasping breaths didn't help. By the white moonlight, Rodney could see the shine of a solid layer of sweat on Sheppard's face and chest. The colonel tossed and turned, rolling from his right side to his stomach, then to his left and curling into a ball.

Rodney sat up, watching Sheppard for a moment, waiting for him to roll back to his right side and feeling uneasy when he didn't, then climbed from the bed and poured water from a clay pitcher into a cup. He nudged Sheppard's shoulder softly. "Hey, colonel. Need a drink?"

There was no answer. Rodney hadn't really expected one, he'd just needed to get Sheppard to roll to his back or at least his right side so Rodney could put the cup to his mouth. The healer hadn't needed to point out the urgency that Sheppard get plenty of water. Been there, done that.

Grunting, Rodney lowered himself to his knees, muttering about the hell cold, hard floors put joints through. He gave Sheppard a harder nudge in the upper shoulder where there were no lacerations or bruises. "Come on, Sheppard. I'm wired enough to put up with this all night. I can out-wait you."

Still no response except for a quiet exhale like a tired sigh. Sheppard was in that between state of exhausted enough to sleep, but in too much discomfort to be able to. Rodney sat back on his haunches, setting the cup on the floor next to him.

"You know," he said, "we should really discuss how the hell we're going to get home. As I recall, the 'gate was in the middle of a desert, and it took them five days to haul us in by wagon."

Sheppard remained silent and still, which was all the more disconcerting. The man never missed an opportunity to talk strategy. Biting back a helpless moan, Rodney placed his hand on Sheppard's bare, overheated and slippery arm, then removed it, wiping his wet hand on his pant-leg.

"Maybe these freedom fighters could give us a ride," he said, needing to say something because he couldn't bare the thought of giving into the silence broken only by Sheppard's labored breathing. He placed his hand back on the colonel's arm, hesitant and uncertain whether or not it was a good idea since he wasn't checking for fever this time. Why there was always this need to comfort through contact was beyond him, and why there was a need for that kind of contact made for an even more complicated enigma. As much as Rodney was of the opinion that hugs or shoulder-claps should be saved for those who appreciated them, he harbored the secret of having found a granule of comfort in knowing that someone was there – through voice preferably, through touch, sometimes.

It sucked being alone, that's all there was to it. Especially in a strange and scary place like this.

Even Sheppard had to be scared, he was just better at masking it. It was probably why he hadn't told Rodney to shut-up, yet. For that reason, Rodney sifted through the files of his mind for something else to talk about. All he came up with were questions that would unintentionally end up poking into personal matters. Funny how that never worked when he wanted it to, and worked at the worst possible time.

Rodney slumped against the side of the bed, ignoring the rough wood digging into his ribs. "You probably thought I was jealous when I asked if you had a Mercedes," he said, mostly to himself. "For the record... Yeah, I suppose I was, kind of. Who wouldn't be, really? Born with the strongest gene. Hot alien women are either kidnapping you or trying to get you to ascend. Could have been Mensa. And then I find out your dad was rich and you had your own horse. Not that I ever wanted my own horse. Jeannie went through that phase of wanting one but it was cut short when she hit puberty and found boys more appealing."

He rested his chin on the edge of the feather-down mattress. "It makes it hard not to be jealous. Not really jealous because I'm still smarter than you. More of a natural jealousy that can't be helped while at the same time doesn't result in me wanting to hate you. Thinking of all the times you could have rubbed any of it my face and didn't... actually, I think it does make me hate you, because I would like to hate you except you weren't a jerk about any of it, so I can't hate you, and I hate that." Rodney scrubbed his face with the hand not on Sheppard's shoulder, wincing when he inadvertently ran his thumb too close to his injured eye. "I have no idea where I'm going with this. Yes, I was jealous, and curious. No, I don't actually hate you, I'm just annoyed at present. But I'll get over it."

"And I'll stop asking stupid questions. Although, for the record, Jeannie did make you privy to some personal moments I'd rather had _not_ gotten out of the bag, so I feel myself entitled to a few inquiries now and then, like where the hell your phobia of clowns came from. I mean, seriously, clowns? Spiders, okay – some of them are poisonous. But clowns? What, did one try to strangle you with a balloon animal?" Rodney shook his head. "Other than that, it's your business, and I _will_ take the hint if you don't want to talk. Still, I hope that... you know... you feel it okay to talk with me about anything. I'm willing to talk, any time, if you want. You've let me talk to you about things so... it's only fair..." he patted John's shoulder. "Yeah, it's only fair."

The wet skin shivered under his hand. Sheppard was still warm, but not quite as over-heated as a moment ago, making Rodney feel safe enough to pull the thin blanket up to the shoulders.

Sheppard's flank deflated on a deep exhale. "I didn't think he wanted to hear from me."

Rodney's hand froze in tucking the blanket. He lifted his head. "What?"

"I thought my dad wouldn't want to hear from me. So I didn't make any message. I thought... I thought I was doing him a favor, and I didn't think he would listen to anything I had to say, anyway, so..."

Rodney's jaw dropped. "What? Why? Why would you think that?" It was an automatic response, and not all that bright in retrospect. After all, it took a math proof and a trip across two galaxies for Rodney to let Jeannie in on the fact that he didn't hate her. But the question was out with no way to take it back.

"Thought I was doing everyone a favor," Sheppard mumbled. "Thought I was doing what was best, the first thing I ever did right. Thought it was what he wanted. Thought he hated me. Last thing he said, before we shipped out to Pegasus..." He shuddered, hard, a full-body tremble that shook the bed. " It was over the damn phone... the last thing he said, was that the next time we talked, there'd be a , um... a coffin lid between us."

Rodney gaped. Sheppard curled tighter into himself, still trembling, but otherwise went completely motionless. The silence that follow was as thick as water pouring into Rodney's throat, tasting stale and old. For a minute, Rodney believed Sheppard had either dropped the matter or had passed out. The wet inhalation and hitched breath told him differently. Rodney leaned forward enough to see part of Sheppard's face in the moonlight, eyes open and the flash of a tear rolling away from the bottom lid. Not a sob, but still crying.

Rodney swallowed, wondering if he should leave, say something, do something and trying to figure out what, which made his heart leap in panic. Sheppard looked as helpless as a child curled up like he was, and that didn't sit right, Rodney couldn't explain why. He slid his hands beneath John's arms, pulled until he was upright, then held on to keep him upright. Sheppard leaned forward planting his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. Even though he shook, he was silent, and the only way Rodney knew he was still crying was from the silver flash of moisture falling from his face to stain the leg of his pants.

Not until Sheppard's body sagged and almost pulled from Rodney's hold did Rodney know he was done. Slowly, he eased him down on the bed, going so far as to move around to the other side to get Sheppard's feet to join the rest, then covered him up. Afterwards, he returned to his own bed, finally exhausted enough to sleep.

--

The freedom fighters were more than simply generous, they were eager to please as though they'd been the ones to do the enslaving and wished to make up for it. When Rodney asked about a possible way of getting to the gate, the result was an entire caravan thrown together for anyone wishing to step through the Ancestral ring. It was a methodical preparation taking three day's time, long enough to ensure the injured and sick didn't keel over during the journey.

Sheppard's fever had been reduced from sweltering to warm. He will still weak, looked like a corpse with his pale face, bruised eyelids and red-rimmed watery eyes, but he made up for it in a feral longing for home that not even fussy Friar Tuck dared tried to counter. Rodney got to ride with John in the back of a covered wagon in order to take care of him.

The journey to the 'gate was slightly less unpleasant than the journey away from the 'gate. For one, they were no longer slaves. For another, there was enough water to drink whenever they wanted rather than when needed. The wagons still jostled, jolted and bumped bruising Rodney's already over-bruised body, so he referred to it as a step up from hell rather than just hell.

And he stayed by Sheppard's side the entire time, keeping him cool, making sure he drank both water and broth, helping him to the bathroom and helping him sit up when lying down became too uncomfortable. Which meant a complete lack of personal space. Sheppard was too weak to sit up by himself, leaning against Rodney's shoulder, sometimes in a huddle when the cold flashes hit or he was in pain. It was monumentally uncomfortable, two sources of heat cooking Rodney's body, but he drank gallons of water, grit his teeth, and put up with it. Sheppard had done just as uncomfortable and then some for him (the "survival technique" employed on that ice planet was strictly between them... and Carter and the SGC, of course, regrettably).

Sheppard had yet to say anything.

Four and a half days later saw them at the 'gate. Rodney supported most of Sheppard's weight as they hobbled to the ring and dialed. Sheppard's fever had crept its way back up to excessive the night before last, killing his appetite and sucking dry any strength he may have had in reserve. He hung from Rodney, barely able to keep his feet under him, when they stepped through the 'gate from oppressive heat into the heavenly cool of a shaded forest. Rodney dragged John down the path to the town they both knew was there, a town given the means to contact the 'Lanteans if help was needed.

What followed was an exhausted and high-strung blur: John taken to the healer's; Rodney rushing back to the 'gate to contact Atlantis; waiting; a wormhole engaging; Ronon, Teyla, and several marines stepping through. All of them and John going home, to safety, and to knowing with a certainty previously denied to them that they were going to be all right.

--

Persistent knocking pulled Rodney from his nightmare of Sheppard being flayed alive while reaching out a bloody hand, begging McKay to help him. Rodney had never been so happy in his life to be interrupted, but decided to keep it to himself. Nightmare or not, the "do not disturb" sign he had pinned up on his door for a reason, and he hated it when people ignored signs.

His swiftly prepared tirade turned into panic when he opened the door to Sheppard pale, hunch-backed, buried in too-large sweats and carrying a rattling tray of two cake slices and milk cartons in his shaking arms.

"About time, McKay," he said.

Rodney grabbed the tray before John's arms gave out. "Sheppard, what the hell!" He hurried to set it on his desk. "You're not supposed to be up." Then hurried to drag Sheppard by the billowy sleeve to the bed. "If Keller catches you, it'll be my ass she kicks." He arranged the pillow against the headboard for Sheppard to sit against, and held the other man's arm as he lowered himself with a stifled grunt. The still-healing lacerations, slow to mend thanks to the infection, made standing hell for John. Sitting wasn't much of a pleasure, either, but easier to tolerate if he didn't apply direct pressure to his back. Sheppard angled himself so that it was mostly his side that was against the pillow.

"I felt it high time I made a house call," he said. "You drop by baring lunch, I drop by baring cake."

"You're not supposed to be "dropping by" anywhere," Rodney replied, moving the tray back to the bed. "And where the hell did you get chocolate cake? I thought the mess had run out."

Sheppard held up a finger. "German Chocolate cake. Dr. Tyler, the red-head in biology? She's dating that really tall guy from archeology and he had the ingredients brought in on the last supply run for her birthday. Enough to make five cakes. Ronon brought me a piece, said he was going to take you a piece but I told him to just leave it with me because you'd be dropping by soon, anyways."

Rodney furrowed his brow. "I already dropped by at lunch."

Taking one of the paper plates of cake, Sheppard shrugged. "Guess I forgot. So, here I am, and I won't tell if you won't."

Rodney took the other plate, "Damn right I won't. Keller will kick both our asses. That woman is like Jekyll going to Hyde when she's pissed," and he dug in, moaning as sweet spongy chocolate slid from the fork onto his tongue. "Ooohhh I've so missed this."

"Obviously," Sheppard said. He took his own bite, and while washing it down with milk, grunted as though realizing something. "Wanted to show you this," he said when he finished. He reached into the pocket of his sweat pants and removed a folded piece of paper that he handed to Rodney.

Not a piece of paper, a photograph: A boy of about nine or ten in the saddle of a brown horse with white splashed on the belly and legs, and a man with cropped dark hair standing on the other side. Both the boy and the man had huge smiles on their faces – two kids in a candy store, only with one of them an actual kid.

"Your dad, I take it?" Rodney asked. The man could have been Sheppard's uncle, for all he knew.

John nodded. "Patrick Sheppard. My brother found a bunch of photos while going through dad's stuff and thought I should have some."

Rodney wondered if it was Sheppard senior John was showing him, the horse, or maybe both. He decided it would be better not to ask, thinking it might be rude to assume, so handed the photo back. "Nice."

John took it and stared at it. "This was the first day I rode Bugs. I wasn't able to until spring." The smile that pulled at his lips was both placid and melancholy, speaking of memories that ached to recall. "I think my dad was just as excited as I was."

"He looks it," Rodney said, the fork turning over and over in his fidgeting hands while he wondered, and secretly fretted, if another personal revelation was around the bend. This time, however, it probably wouldn't be so bad. Sheppard was neither sick nor exhausted, making anything he had to say strictly voluntary; which meant...

Rodney actually wasn't sure what it meant – that Sheppard felt more comfortable around him, trusted him, or simply felt the need to finish what had been started. What ever the case, Rodney had the feeling it was a good thing, so would listen no matter how personal it got.

Nothing squeamishly personal, of course. That just wasn't who Sheppard was.

"Yeah," John muttered, then fell silent.

"Can I ask you something?" Rodney suddenly blurted, no thinking involved, just speaking and unable to stop himself before the words got out. "And you don't have to answer. I was just... you said some things, while we were, you know... in hell. Anyways, some things were said, and it got me wondering. You don't... I mean to say, you don't still think your dad hated you, do you? Because I've been there, where you've been, but on the other end. I've been there and I know... I know that just because you're really mad at someone and think you knew best, that doesn't mean you still don't love them. And I would think that applies to everyone, no matter what they do, or say." He forced his jaw to snap shut before he could launch into a full-blown ramble, and waited nervously for an answer, or uncomfortable silence.

Sheppard never looked up from the picture when he said with conviction, "No. No, I don't."

Rodney's body melted in relief. "Oh, good. Because he didn't. Your dad. Hate you, I mean. He didn't hate you. We get mad, we say things, we regret saying things -"

"Don't know what to say to make it better."

"Exactly. And, I know I didn't know your father, but I think – feel – that he would have been proud of you. Or was. Maybe... always had been? You know? I don't know, really. Just... just assuming, here."

Sheppard's head snapped up, eyes wide and considerate. "You think?"

Rodney shrugged and jutted his chin. "I would think so, yes. You're kind of the type: always saving everyone, your "leave no man behind" motto, flying spaceships and protecting an alien city... except he wouldn't know about that. But the saving everyone thing, and wanting to save everyone – choosing a career that's all about protecting people - I can't see how it's possible not to be proud of that, I really can't."

Sheppard looked back down at the picture, his jaw working as he fought with pain and regret too thick for Rodney not to see. It made Rodney's own chest tighten, because he couldn't imagine leaving in the wake of misplaced emotions and losing all chance of making right everything that had gone wrong. And when he tried to imagine it, his throat closed up, making it impossible to breathe. He didn't overlook the way John's hand began to shake.

Silence stretched, a comfortable silence, for once, that Rodney didn't mind so much. He turned his face away, just enough to keep Sheppard in the corner of his eye, but also giving the man his own private space.

After more than a minute according to the digital clock on the side table, Sheppard slipped the picture back into his pocket, pulled his hand into his lap by the cake, and just sat there.

Worried, Rodney looked at him. "John? You all right?"

Sheppard nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm good." He picked up his milk, took a sip, looked up at Rodney and smiled. "I'm good."

Rodney smiled back. "Good." He took another bite of cake.

The atmosphere shifted as though expanding and filling the room with more oxygen. Soft cake and cool milk were like warmth relaxing Rodney into a companionable and content mood that made it easy to forget his slave status of only days ago. "So, what made you not want to join Mensa?"

"I wanted to spare the world one more smart-ass," John replied.

"Obviously you failed. Seriously, why didn't you join?"

"Thought I would have to join a Star Trek fan club, too."

"I thought you liked Star Trek, _Kirk_?"

"I do. I just didn't want to join the fan club. Hard-core Trekkers can be pretty brutal when they want – making you wear red shirts, breaking your fingers so you can do the "live long and prosper" peace sign..."

"You're a freak, Colonel. Has anyone told you that?"

"Gee, thanks McKay."

"Any time, Sheppard."

The end


End file.
